Page 30 of The Kiss of Deception

Which is why I answer.

“I suppose I always had a penchant to ask questions. ‘Too curious for my own good’, my grandpa says.”

I smile, hearing the fondness in his accent so vividly he might as well be eating pasta with us.

My heart tightens with love and the reminder of all the ways I will hurt him if my lies unravel.

On the other hand, my other dear grandfather. If I’d thought he’d be mad with my choices, I’d been wrong. He was only utterly disappointed, as he had told me. Repeatedly.

In his disappointment, I found comfort—the reliable kind that comes from familiarity.

I never disappoint in disappointing.

“I’m sorry.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“I didn’t mean to upset you. I didn’t know it was a sensitive subj—”

Unwilling to show weakness, I don’t let him finish. “You did not upset me.”

“You spaced out. And your face did this thing it does when you get upset.”

“My face didn’t do a thing,” I spit. My face has learned to say only the things I allow. “Anyways, what did you study?”

Miles sinks his fingers through stubborn strands that slowly escape the confines of whatever product he applied. “I’m not sure I want to tell you.” I swirl the liquid in my glass until he relents. “Promise you won’t mock me.”

“Promise.” Across the table, he stretches his finger. I lock my pinkie in his.

“History. Philosophy minor,” he blurts like the words would refuse to come out if he’d said them at a normal pace. Then, he promptly shovels shrimp inside his mouth.

My cheeks twitch and I crack my first laugh of the evening.

“Hey, you promised.” He points the fork in my direction. “Pinkie-promised!”

“I promised I wouldn’t mock you.” I hold my hands up, still snickering. “Never said anything about laughing.”

“I don’t understand what’s so funny.” He lays down his fork. Miles leans back, his legs brush mine as he spreads them under the tablecloth. I forget it’s my turn to answer, so he takes my silence as an opening. “I read too many books when I was young. When you’re an only child and your mother is a librarian that tends to happen.”

“I read books, too, and I didn’t pursue a thousand-year-old career, Blackstein.” I arch a brow at him.

“Well, I studied philosophy, and I really enjoyed it.”

It’s a first, hearing him so defensive.

I find it oddly delightful.

“I bet you did, love,” I drawl, not missing the sheepishness painting the tips of his ears the color of the tablecloth.

“So how do you put your education to practice? Do you stand in front of a mirror and wonder about all those philosophical questions? Like, can someone so gorgeous be real?”

I’m not a funny person; it’s a fact that’s never bothered me. I was raised to be great and excel in my pursuits—not to be the clown on duty. But right now, I really wish I were the girl with quirky jokes.

As it is, all my jokes are bad, and I crack them anyway. Because, maybe it’s the wine, but I finally realize I’ve been playing the game wrong all along.

I should’ve been resorting to his tactics. I should’ve been teasing him all along.

“Is physical activity a coping mechanism for you?”

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